‘Charges?’ demanded Michael sharply. ‘What charges?’
‘Devilry,’ replied the beadle grimly. ‘Whittlesey burst in on Godrich while he was changing for the feast, and saw a horned serpent inked into his skin. He was horrified, and declared that someone bearing that sort of mark could never be Chancellor.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, while Bartholomew recalled the number that had covered Tynkell, and wondered what the envoy would have said about those. ‘And Godrich meekly agreed?’
‘They had a blazing row, during which hot words were exchanged and a bowl was lobbed – it cut Whittlesey’s hand. But then they calmed themselves, and Whittlesey issued his ultimatum: that Godrich leave or be exposed.’
‘That explains the broken pot and the argument Dodenho heard,’ said Michael. ‘But why did Godrich bide by it? He spent a fortune on his campaign, and he is not the sort of man to shrug and walk away, just because a meddling kinsman threatened to tell tales – he would just have denied the allegations.’
‘Because of the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ explained the beadle. ‘It was him who Whittlesey threatened to tell, not our scholars.’
‘A shrewd move,’ said Michael grudgingly, and explained to Bartholomew and Tulyet. ‘The Archbishop would demand to see Godrich’s mark, and the truth would be out. Then, as no prelate can be seen condoning witchery, he would have to disown Godrich. The rest of the family would inevitably follow suit, cutting Godrich off without a penny.’
‘Right,’ said the beadle. ‘So Godrich had no choice but to do as Whittlesey ordered – unless he wanted to live in penury for the rest of his life, shunned by his kin.’
‘Godrich confided all this willingly?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.
The beadle grinned. ‘Of course not! We told him that we had orders to hang him for Chancellor Tynkell’s murder, and Meadowman posed as a priest to hear his last confession. Godrich was livid when he realised he had been deceived, but it could not be helped. We did not have time to devise a different plan.’
‘But he did not admit to murder?’ asked Michael, smirking at the thought of the haughty Godrich quailing in terror at the prospect of summary execution.
‘He assured “Father” Meadowman that he was innocent of those. He owned up to a lot of other nasty things, though – including not pressing for justice when he found out that Inge and Egidia had murdered Peter Poges. Oh, and he also said that he was with Whittlesey when Tynkell died, so if he is not the culprit, Whittlesey is not either. It pained him to say it, though.’
‘Because he wanted Whittlesey in trouble, I suppose,’ surmised Michael. ‘And resented being the one who would prove his innocence.’
The beadle nodded. ‘And because he thought Whittlesey might be guilty of dispatching Moleyns. He received a letter, you see, from Bishop Sheppey, warning him that Whittlesey was dangerous. He kept a careful eye on him afterwards, lest Whittlesey did something to lose him votes.’
‘Which explains why he tried to keep Whittlesey close,’ sighed Michael. ‘It was not for the kudos of having an influential churchman at his side, as Whittlesey believed. But we can ask him all this when he comes back. I assume Meadowman is bringing him?’
The beadle shook his head. ‘We locked him in the tavern’s cellar, and I will fetch him tomorrow. Meadowman and the others have gone after Whittlesey.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You just told us that he is not the killer.’
‘Because once Godrich learned that his cousin had also raced off in the middle of the night, he kept saying that it was suspicious. We agreed: that envoy is up to something untoward. So we decided we had better try to find out what …’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘But let us hope it does not take them too long. I need them here.’
‘Kolvyle and Hopeman,’ said Bartholomew a short while later, when Tulyet had gone to supervise the increasingly fraught search for the woman in the cloak with the fancy hem, who he thought represented their best chance of answers. ‘We should speak to them again – and soon. I have a bad feeling that unless we do something quickly, the killer will strike again.’
‘Yes, with Suttone likely to be the next victim,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric will do his best, but … Do you really think the culprit is one of those two?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Neither has given us a reason to think otherwise.’
They began to hurry to the Market Square, where they could hear Hopeman making another speech. The Dominican had a powerful voice, and Bartholomew hoped he would not win the election, if for no other reason that it would be taxing to hear it at every turn.
‘I hate to admit that I was wrong,’ said Michael as they went, ‘but I wish I had nailed my colours to Thelnetham’s mast. He is by far the most able candidate, and I am sure I could have devised a way to keep him in line. It is a pity he withdrew.’
‘Can you persuade him to re-enter the race? Most of our colleagues would welcome a third option now that Lyng and Godrich are unavailable. And it might serve to calm the trouble that is brewing – the Regent masters feel cheated as matters stand.’
‘The statutes forbid it.’
‘Then perhaps Hopeman is right to suggest they be scrapped. They are meant to serve us, not the other way around.’
Michael did not bother to argue. They reached the Market Square, where the Dominican had attracted a small but fervent gathering of like-minded zealots.
‘Suttone does not care what happens to the University,’ he was bawling, ‘because he thinks we will all be dead of the plague in a few months. But before he goes, he intends to sample every woman in Cambridge, and encourages us to do likewise.’
Michael marched towards him, and Hopeman evidently knew he would not win a public battle of words with the monk, because he jumped down from the trough on which he had been standing, and indicated that one of his acolytes was to take his place.
‘What do you want, Brother?’ he demanded. ‘Hurry up! I am busy with God’s work, and cannot afford to squander time with you.’
‘Did God tell you to murder Tynkell in order to force an election?’ asked Michael baldly. ‘And then dispatch Lyng, because he was the candidate most likely to win?’
‘My conversations with the Lord are private,’ declared the friar, then gave a grin that verged on the malevolent. ‘You will never convict me of those crimes, so go to Rochester and forget about them. Your time here is done.’
‘Was that a confession?’ asked Michael, as the priest strutted away, bristling defiance in every step. ‘It sounded like one.’
‘It was a challenge, certainly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But you need evidence. Accusing him without it will achieve nothing – the Dominicans will defend him, just because he is one of them, regardless of what they really think. And then he will claim that you arrested him just to make sure your candidate was the only one left.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘That will be difficult to deny, even though it would be a lie.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘So you cannot arrest him until you have real evidence of his guilt – hard facts or material proof.’
‘Then go and find me some,’ ordered Michael. ‘Try the King’s Head. It is a good place for gossip, and the patrons will talk to their medicus more readily than me.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the monk must be desperate indeed if he was resorting to that sort of tactic.